Charlotte turned around in her seat to see what was going on. She could make no sense of it, me standing so stiffly, Boo throwing her phone around. She got up and reached for the phone, which caused Newman to lurch forward. He grabbed a lamp from the side table and smacked it against Charlotte’s head as she bent over. She made a little cry of surprise, and then he hit her again, and again, until she fell to the floor and was still. He gingerly took the terminus from her hand.

“There,” I said. “You have it. I told you.”

“So you did,” he said.

I had no idea what came next, and I’m not sure he did either. He stared at the terminus in shock. There was blood coming out of a gash on Charlotte’s head. I had no idea if she was alive. Newman watched the news for a moment, mesmerized by the footage of the police cars trolling the streets, still looking for him.

“We’re left with a situation, aren’t we?” he said. “Our agreement was I got the terminus, and your friend Stephen was allowed to live. I’ve honored that. But I’ve started a project—a great project—and that project needs to be completed. Saucy Jack must finish his work.”

“But . . .”

“Aurora,” he said patiently, “it’s much too good a show to end. And really, you always knew. You didn’t run from me—you faced me. We were always going to finish this.”

This didn’t upset me as much as it should have. It felt more like a dream. I knew precisely what he meant. Maybe we were always going to finish this. Maybe he was the person I’d always imagined by my side in England—a star-crossed pair, the slayer and the victim, tied together by fate. Or maybe I was just tired of running from him, tired of feeling that knife.

“Why?” Boo said.

“Why?” Newman said. “Because I can.”

“But what will it do?”

Newman pointed to the television behind him.

“This story,” he said, “it’s captured imaginations. I chose Jack the Ripper for a very specific reason. Fear. Jack the Ripper is one of the most feared figures in history. Look at all of these people obsessed with him. It’s been over a hundred years, and people are still trying to figure out who he is. He’s every figure in the dark. He’s every killer that got away. He’s the one who kills and never explains why. In the grand scheme of things, he didn’t even kill that many people. You know what I think it is? I think it’s the name. And he didn’t even come up with it—a newspaper did, based on a fake letter.”

“The name of the Star,” I said.

He smiled and nodded, looking genuinely pleased.